


You're like water with just a touch of lead (but you're so goddamn delicious I'll drink you 'til I'm dead)

by merrythoughts



Series: Don't you smile like you smile 'less you mean it [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, POV Second Person, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 00:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15785061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: Your hands stroke up and down the planes of his back, enjoying the light sheen of sweat over his muscles. Your eyes are shut, a lazy satisfied smile plays on your lips You're in no rush. It doesn't always have to be rough and frenzied (but it often is).





	You're like water with just a touch of lead (but you're so goddamn delicious I'll drink you 'til I'm dead)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReallyMissCoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY TRASHIEST BESTFRIEND PLATONIC LOVER KRYSTA! (─‿─)
> 
> This is your fault that I like this pairing. Thx for being born and being mah friend yo.
> 
> Should read the first part of this series as this is now from Peter's pov.
> 
> Title from the song 'I want you' by Cosmicity ([lyrics](https://genius.com/Cosmicity-i-want-you-lyrics)/[song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HIqH-jZCsUI))

Despite the mess when _not_ used, you forgo condoms whenever possible with him. You don't care for sensations being dulled by latex barriers - no thank you. He'd claim to not care either way, but you know better (he prefers to not use them as well, such a dirty boy that Chris Argent). 

You're a werewolf. You may have been promiscuous at times and while you're not monogamous _now,_ you can't catch anything. By proxy, he can't catch anything either - at least, not from you. Every once in a while you smell the lingering scent of a woman's cunt on him or in his hotel room. The stink of cheap perfume and hairspray causing your nose to wrinkle (unlike them, you actually possess good tastes). You've even found a gauche red bra that had been discarded and "lost" under the bed. Tacky, but you suppose you can't blame him.

It doesn't bother you. If anything, you tease Chris about the frivolous heterosexual pursuits. At least he doesn't try dating them. 

However, one sad little time he'd nearly courted the idea. He'd been squirreled away in some podunk dusty little town, moping and drinking a little too much, the grief beard out of control and _pathetic_ _widow_ rolling off of him in waves. Practically a country song in the making, all he'd been missing was the truck. Some local waitress at the diner had taken a liking to him and Chris had been destitute enough to _not_ turn away her advances. 

You'd straightened him out a week and half later when, after a rather cryptic text, you'd made it into town. You'd watched him for less than a day and saw all you needed to see - she was well-meaning (as so many silly humans are), but ultimately a poor and pale shade of Victoria. You strode into the bar, grabbed him by the shoulders, made your intentions known, and dragged him back to his hotel room. 

He hadn't stopped you.

And the next day the two of you killed a family of wendigos. Well, you slaughtered them and he simply killed them, all practical and no flair. The two of you are a rather productive team when he lets you help. It's a pity he doesn't invite you along more often. You could be saving so many people! Ooooh, aaaah. 

Honestly, you just like to let the wolf out sometimes. Your claws get bloody and it feels _good._ It never feels as righteous as it had been while clawing his sister's throat out, though. There's just some highs that can't be followed. You never tell him this. You don't think he would appreciate it.

Unlike women, you can provide him with _everything_ Chris could possibly want. You'll fuck and be fucked. You'll bite and be bitten. Claw and be clawed. You're adaptable like that. Flexible. Just one of your many perks if you do say so yourself.

~*~

He's on top, but bent over you, his head shoved into the pillow so he can't see you. His hands clench the sweat-stained sheets underneath you. You're not offended to the aversion of eye contact whilst fucking. This is pretty standard Chris behavior, after all. Your arms wrap around his back, holding him and you're keenly aware that it's more or less a one-sided embrace. It's also the kind of position that would never be allowed unless a dick was shoved up someone's ass.

It just so happens to be _your_ dick that is inside of him right now. He shudders, breathing deep and trying to release the tension in his body, trying valiantly to not clench. Chris never likes to take the necessary time to properly prepare, but who are you to stop him? He'd claimed to be ready and you went along with it. At times you can be ever so accommodating.

Your hands stroke up and down the planes of his back, enjoying the light sheen of sweat over his muscles. Your eyes are shut, a lazy satisfied smile plays on your lips You're in no rush. It doesn't always have to be rough and frenzied (but it often is). 

This is an exception, so you will gladly enjoy the variation. You're not a monster, you don't enjoy that Chris is nearly having a breakdown. You're here. You're giving him what he wants.

Chris is so perfectly hot and vice-like around you and you scent his arousal and struggle - Chris Argent's own brand of cologne, practically an aphrodisiac for you. The position may not be great for momentum or range, but your strength comes into play here. You thrust up into him, shallow and slow and he clings onto you, trying, yes, more valiant trying as he attempts to keep quiet.

But you hear him. You hear the tight groans, you hear the stilted breathing. You hear his pulse pick up. You hear his nails scratch, his fingers grasp. You'd prefer if he scratched at you, but you aren't going to demand it. You're nice like that (at least for right now). 

Gradually he begins to rock back against you, meeting your thrusts and coming out of his shell just a bit. Your arms hold him, your hips move and give him what he needs.

Your bodies find a pace. His body shudders. Your body doesn't stop.

You whisper words that you know he'll try and ignore.

~*~

He's testy, but that's nothing new. His hotel room is also rather disgusting. Some cases seem to hit him harder than others. Wives killed, daughters killed… It's fairly predictable. You decide to help, picking up the nearest take-out box.

"You know, I'm not going to be your next wife," you add as you deposit the garbage where it belongs. Of course, the garbage receptacle is nearly fully. Abysmal living conditions, really. If you didn't suffer from some unfortunate case of a sentiment toward Chris Argent, you'd have washed your hands of him a long time ago.

Alas, here you are, trying to help and keep him functioning. He needs a tune-up. Thankfully, the doctor is in and he's providing house calls (apparently).

"Don't." 

One word. It's a warning. You can hear it in his tone. He's cleaning his gun. He could shoot you. He has before. He's even used wolfsbane. There's no wolfsbane-laced bullets now, however. Chris sometimes is thoughtful and keeps the wolfsbane in the car when he knows you're stopping by for a visit. 

"Oh, come on, you're still wearing your grief beard far too long and barely holding it together," you point out. All factual, by the way. You don't mind the beard, but it is a tad too long for your tastes. Grooming. It's important, kids. 

You can see his jaw clench. He's glaring at you, but you're already on a roll. Might as well keep on going! "You probably wouldn't even _pretend_ to groom if it wasn't for me stopping by - and thank you by the way for putting the minimal effort in, I'm truly touched."

Okay… Perhaps you're being slightly heavy handed, but technically it's still true. You _are_ glad that he grabbed a shower before you arrived. You can smell the recently laundered clothing as well. You popping by does kick him in the ass to ramp up the self-care and he _needs_ it.

When he comes at you, you're smiling and laughing as your back collides with the wall. You enjoy when he gets riled up. It's a delicious spark of the old Chris and you know what he needs. Chris may be frustrated, but he doesn't need _you_ pinned to the wall. You adapt. 

So your hands dart out and grip at his shoulders and you push him back in order to spin him around. You step into him, backing _him_ into the wall as you grab at his wrists and lift them up.

You clasp his wrists hard enough to leave bruisers, a memento from your time together. (You know he likes them.) You're a little hard, Chris showing violence always incites you. You purposefully nudge up against his ass and when he struggles, you know it's so that he can feel it - so that he can feel you keeping him contained. It's not an attempt to escape. It never is.

You move your chin, resting it over his shoulder and you murmur like the snake in the Garden of Eden. "Ooo, you do need it, don't you? Feisty as ever Chris, just how I like you.

"Fuck off," he snaps back. Chris' hands form fists and you're both aware that it's not a _no._

So you laugh lightly, pleased as punch. "Don't worry, I'll give you what you need," you tell him and rub your erection into his pert ass. You can easily hear his labored breathing. He's going to bottom tonight and while he might not like it it's what Chris needs right now.

Whether or not he'll ever admit it, you can tell what Chris needs. Sometimes it's you letting him bite and scratch you and push you around. Other times it's you giving him the same treatment. 

Versatility. Adaptability. Good things.

You bite at the back of his neck with human teeth and his body reacts deliciously, arching back into you and you take it as the encouragement that it is. It's only when you let your fangs come out and the pain climbs higher that Chris allows himself to groan. Masochist.

Your fangs are sharp and they puncture skin and bring forth blood. You don't tear. You're not a savage (at least not with him). Humans are delicate and while you know he'd likely _let_ you, you bite cleanly and you lick the blood away after. 

Now, Chris? Chris is more violent, but Chris has a lot of pent up anger that he doesn't deal with and you can take it.

You let him bite and scratch you bloody, you let him growl and attempt to tear you apart. The sheets get bloody, the clothes get bloody. It's what you're both used to and it's what you both need.

Getting undressed is not necessary. You push Chris to the best and you work his pants and boxers down as he comes to rest his head on the pillow. It's a delightful image of submission, but it only shows how wrecked he is that he _willingly_ goes to it. His ass is in the air waiting for you and you know the _real_ reason why he's chosen to be like this: he doesn't want to look at you. Eyes are complicated, connection can be terrifying for what _then_? Chris doesn't want connection (but it's there nonetheless).

You don't make him wait and you don't tease. You retrieve lube and you're thorough as you coat your finger and push one inside of him.

Predictably, he tenses and you give him a _tsk tsk_ sound. He should know better. Clenching only makes it worse and Chris does come to his senses as he breathes deeply and forces himself to relax. You are entirely practical in this endeavor. You don't play around, you don't go for his prostate. Your pace is steady and when his body can handle it, you use another finger. And then another a few minutes later. Chris is eerily quiet as you work him open, the sounds of your fingers pumping into him wet and obscene. Your other hand comes underneath his shirt and you stroke against his low back, undoubtedly a soothing action that he may try to flinch against (but this time he doesn't and that's likely saying something). 

When you deem him stretched enough, your fingers pull out and you go for your zipper. You simply pull yourself out, coat your cock with more lube and spread him open. The tip of your cock doesn't push in, you merely rub it along his waiting hole and smile because you've earned this meager amount of teasing. You're still Peter Hale.

Predictably, he grits out a, "bastard" and you see him clench at the bedsheets with his hands. His hands have killed werewolves. Your hands have killed werewolves _and_ hunters. You smell sweat and arousal, blood, the dank room. The A/C could be turned up, but you aren't about to tend to that when you have one Chris Argent waiting to be fucked. 

"Hey now, my parents were married," you reply, trying to sound coy but you know you don't exactly pull it off. Your voice is still rough with arousal. You don't think you'll ever get over the delight of fucking a hunter. 

And it's after you give a pleased little laugh that you finally push in. You're not crude, but steady. Inch by inch Chris' body accepts you, it's hot and perfect, a sin you would gladly commit over and over again. Your hands grasp onto his hips and you pull him back on your cock. Chris' answer is a moan when he's completely filled and you can't help but rotate your hips and enjoy the sensation.

Predictably, he has to give his two cents. "Come on, Peter."

You say nothing, barely restraining yourself from rolling your eyes. Instead, you pull out before slamming back in. You aren't kind or gentle and as you fuck him like he wants it and it's only proven to you again as you can smell his arousal climbing higher.

Like this, you take him out of his head. It's what Chris needs but doesn't want to ask for. You know, you know, you know.

You also know that this isn't just sex. How could it be? You're both broken jagged things and yet you can come together and your bodies feel just a little more _whole_.

You don't talk while you fuck. You feel and he feels and it's raw in a way that has your eyes glinting blue at times. He lets you go wild and you reward him by draping yourself over him and fucking him into the mattress. Your strength undoubtedly makes this position work better and it's nearly animalistic as you drive into him.

The urge to bite while you fuck him rears its head but you're afraid you would tear, you're afraid that he might know what this means.

Chris comes and tries to be quiet, he tries to fight against it, biting his lip (you can smell the copper) but still there's a gasp like it's punched out of him as he shakes beneath you. You live for this, when pleasure peaks and Chris falls apart. It's beautiful.

So you whisper that _he's_ beautiful, and you tell Chris Argent one word: _mine._


End file.
